Courage
by Sourcherry01
Summary: He hated that she knew him so well. He often liked to think of himself as some great mystery that no one could quite understand. It satisfied him to know that he was underestimated, overlooked, forgotten, the other Black. A Regulus Black story.


**AN: First Harry Potter fic. I know that one of the character's used here is probably pure-blood (juding by her reaction to a muggle kitchen implement) but I'm just pretending she's muggle-born because i like her and wanted to use her. This is just a glimpse into my version of the lives of two background characters, plus i like to think Regulus (with those parents, and that end) knew a little bit of love.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters - they are all J.K. Rowling's. Don't own song the lyrics, or dictionary definition used. **

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****Courage**

_**n. The state or quality of mind or spirit that enables one to face danger, fear, or vicissitudes with self-possession, confidence, and resolution; bravery**__._

"_Maybe I'm a lonely man who's in the middle of something that he doesn't really understand."_ – Paul McCartney

"It's my birthday," Regulus said, eyes never leaving the thick canopy above. Only a few rays of sunlight were so strong as to break through the darkness, lighting up patches of the forest floor where saplings struggled to grow. They had lain silently side-by-side in one such patch of light for nearly an hour.

Her eyes were closed, enjoying the rejuvenating feeling of the sun, but a small smile played with the corners of her lips. "Is it now," she replied, voice softened by the silence.

Regulus turned to look at her. She was bathed in sunlight her jet-black hair haloed around her face, her pale skin in stark contrast with the shadows surrounding her. Was she even real? She smirked. Yes, it would seem she was; he turned away.

One bright blue eye cracked open to twinkle in his direction. "It's rude to stare," she pointed out.

"I wasn't."

Laughter bubbled to the surface. "Of course you weren't."

He hated that she knew him so well. He often liked to think of himself as some great mystery that no one could quite understand. It satisfied him to know that he was underestimated, overlooked, forgotten, the other Black. To sit back and observe, to keep to himself, that was his nature. But he was a second son plunged into the first ones place, and he hated his brother for it. It should never have been he weighed under by their parent's hopes and desires, left alone with them day and night, hearing nothing but how the family name must be restored, how **he** must not fail them. It should have been Sirius. He wished it were. But it wasn't.

A twig snapped and he woke from his thoughts to find two blue orbs gazing sweetly down at him. "Happy birthday," she whispered brushing her lips against his.

He loved how she could make him forget. Forget his family. Forget the mark burned into his skin. Forget who they were. Forget how this – they – should not be happening.

When they broke apart she buried her head into his chest, pulling the fabric of his robes over her beaming face and he heard her take a deep breath. With absolute certainty her cheeks would now be flushed a tempting rose. He absently trailed his fingers through her ebony hair pulling shards of bark, twigs, and leaves from it. She mumbled something incoherent into his torso; he felt the vibrations of her voice travel through him.

"Pardon?" He asked with an uncharacteristic grin.

Lifting her tousled head from the dark folds of fabric she caught his eyes. "We had better head back soon," she repeated, "or my friends will start wondering where I've been."

What he wanted most in the world was to have the courage to say: 'I don't care! Let them ask all they want. Tell them you were with me." But he didn't. He wasn't brave, not like his brother, not like a Griffindor. If he was he would take her warm hand in his and together they would stroll back to the castle arm in arm, he would kiss her and hold her outside lessons, he would walk her back to her common room after dinner and meet up with her for lunch. If he were brave he wouldn't care about the comments that would be directed their way. But he did care.

"It's ok," she smiled, a smile that didn't quite touch her eyes, "I understand, I don't mind. I wouldn't come if I did." Her hands reached up and cupped his face so tenderly. She touched him like no one ever before, no loathing, no barriers, just her skin against his; sometimes greedily as if she just couldn't help herself, sometimes it was as if her fingers were committing him to memory.

"I love you," he said before he knew he had. Before he could take it back.

Shock flittered across her eyes and her jaw slackened, she clearly wasn't prepared for that particular confession.

The sun hid behind a cloud and they were in shadow. Why had he said that to her? What had possessed him? Now she would know she had a hold over him, that if she wanted to she could crush him like a bug under her shoe.

She still hadn't spoken but her hands were clutching tightly to his robes, slowly her face seemed to soften, her eyes growing brighter, and her cheeks pinker.

Regulus didn't register this change, as his mind was too busy exploding. He didn't love her did he? It was just a slip of the tongue, a mistake, he'd forgotten himself for a moment and it had snuck up on him.

_She still hadn't said anything!_

His brother was right he _was_ a prat.

Now what should he do? Deny it. Pretend it never happened.

He couldn't very well leave her believing that he was in for the long run, right? It just wasn't possible. It would never be possible, never, not unless hell froze over; or it turned out that she was adopted. _Blood_. It always came down to blood. Her blood was the problem, she was a filthy mudblood, lying there staining his green robes yellow.

What had she done to him? He was Regulus Black, his parents last hope. He was no blood traitor. He was a loyal servant of the Dark Lord.

She must have noticed the change in his mood because she sat back on her feet and his body instantly felt the loss of her. "Regulus?" she asked, strangely uncertain.

He pushed himself up, brushing down his clothes, avoiding her searching eyes. What was he doing here? Did he really think this was a good idea? That this was anything more than a bit of fun?

"Regulus?" she asked again her voice weaker than before.

"What?" he snapped at her, suddenly angry, and to his horror he watched as she flinched from him. "Just back off ok! You have no idea." He rose unsteadily to his feet.

"Regulus, listen to me. I love-"

"Shut up."

She stood now, resentment building with every second he avoided her stare. "Don't do this…" she warned.

"Do what?" he interrupted coldly. She hated being interrupted. "We weren't doing anything."

She took a deep breath. "I lo-"

"Don't." He cut her off again.

"Regulus, you're not…"

"I'm not what? Not a Slytherin?" he asked mockingly. "Not a Black? Not a Pureblood? Not a supporter of the Dark Lord?" His voice was beginning to sound hysterical; he needed to get away from her before he lost it completely.

"It doesn't matter," she insisted. They were now standing metres apart and the air around them seemed to crackle and hum with magic.

"Yes," he said turning to leave, "it does."

He reached the edge of the forest before he heard her final words, the last words they would ever speak to each other. In the distance loomed the castle surrounded by the freezing waters of the lake. Tomorrow they would pass in the corridors like strangers, eyes down, but still catching even the slightest of movements the other made; every one of their nerve endings would strain out towards the other with an almost painful desperation.

"You are not who you think you are Regulus Black!" She said, her voice raw with emotion.

He paused. But moved on a second later. The cool breeze picked up those words, repeating them, whipping them against his skin as he wound his way up to the great hall. He was not a brave man.

"_Come away with me, where they can't tempt us with their lies"_ – Norah Jones

Forgive me.

I was a fool, such a complete idiot. You were right all along, and I should have known because you were always right – it used to drive me mad – the way you knew me inside and out, better than I even knew myself. I know it isn't fair of me to contact you like this. If you ripped this letter up without even reading it I wouldn't blame you, I deserve it, and worse, much worse. The things I've seen, the things I've done, I… I can't… It was all wrong, all lies, it was nothing like what I thought it would be. You knew that though – didn't you? But this isn't a confession. There isn't enough parchment in the world for all my sins.

I'm leaving. Going somewhere far away where no one will know my face, my name, where I can live again, where I can be that person – that person that you saw in me, all those years ago. Maybe I'm deluded. Maybe I've had too much to drink. Maybe I have no right to ask this of you after everything I did to you… But I have to ask because if I don't, if I don't find out for sure, once and for all, then I know I will regret it for the rest of my life.

I have something I must do. He is not going to like it. So I need to go, you see, no matter what your answer is I need to run like the coward I've always been. Will you run with me?

I have nothing more to offer you than my love, inadequate as it is. I can't deny it – I don't want to deny it. I want to spend the rest of my life earning your forgiveness because if there is one thing in this mad world that I am certain of it's that I love you, only you.

Yours always,

Regulus

He folded the thick parchment into three and slid it into the top draw of his desk. With a deep sigh he lifted another folded sheet, tucked it into his pocket and turned to the elf that stood patiently waiting for him; the creature was shaking almost as much as he was. "Come Krecher, it's time."

He was not a brave man.

"_This is the way you left me, I'm not pretending. No hope, no love, no glory, no happy ending" _- Mika

She swore to herself that she wouldn't do it. That nothing good could possibly come of such masochistic thoughts. Yet there she stood at the foot of the ebony stairs, her left knee bending with a life of its own to climb the first step. It was entirely possible that this would be her only chance.

The house was silent; the occupants that usually filled its dark walls with their yells, arguments, and laughter had vacated for the day to wave the children goodbye on Platform 9 ¾. Even Sirius had gone, in dog form naturally, despite the vocal protests from other Order members. This was her chance; the chance she had been waiting for since she discovered that their headquarters would be at no. 12.

Slowly, step-by-step she found herself moving up the staircase towards the shadowy landing. Her heart was beating audibly against her ribcage, her palms were sweating, why did she feel so guilty?

The floorboards creaked as she moved down the landing, briefly she wondered where the house elf had gotten to, he was always skulking about somewhere – not that she thought she would be any better trapped in this house day in day out.

It wasn't hard to find which room was his. Sirius had made it clear that there were only two of the many rooms in his childhood home that were strictly off limits. He had insisted to a very aggravated Molly that he would clean them himself because he had no idea what sort of nasty little things they would contain.

The first of the two rooms was his parents, it was located along the first corridor, and she hurried past it. A desperate feeling like seeing a light at the end of a tunnel came over her and her feet couldn't move fast enough. On she went to the point where the main corridor turned sharply to the left. It was almost like an alcove, merely seven metres in, where a nondescript black door stood just like all the others.

More hesitantly than moments ago she stood before it. With her blood rushing through her veins she lifted the trembling hand that held her wand, whispered - "alohomora" – and pushed the heavy wood open. No turning back.

The first thing she noticed was the smell and it made her choke back an uninvited cry. It was silly really - she knew it was - to have expected it to still hold his scent after all these years. Cautiously, on unstable legs, she entered his room, her bright blue eyes taking it in immediately, storing it all to memory. She knew she would never be here again and she refused to forget even one minute detail of it. The curtains were closed to the morning light and she swiftly tugged them open, thankful that Sirius must have cleared out all the doxy infestations.

There was a large king sized bed with heavy emerald curtains surrounding it, the bed was still made, as if he was only at school, as if at any moment he would charge up the stairs and into this room with that constant look of consternation across his face. She imagined him sprawled across it, a book grasped in one hand, perhaps even one of the novels she'd lent him that he never returned (and she never asked for).

She sat on his bed half expecting it to collapse beneath her, everything here seemed infinitely fragile to her. She lay back so that all her eyes could see was the whitewashed ceiling above. As a teenager she had spent hours imagining what it would be like to lay on his bed with him, to sleep next to him, to feel the warmth of his body against her, the comfort of his arms around her waist, to feel him so close to her that they were one. Now they were one, just not the one she'd longed for.

At first she had been furious with him, furious and disappointed. Pathetically a part of her had always clung to the hope he would come back. If he had she would have made him beg, certainly, but she would have taken him with an open heart in the end; but he even refused to acknowledge her presence when they crossed paths in the corridors or classrooms. She heard that he had buried himself deeper into the dark arts, bowing completely to his parent's wishes. She hated them for what they had done to him. She hated herself for not being able to understand it, until now.

Sitting up she stared around, her eyes passing over the ornate looking wardrobe (she knew it would still be filled with his clothes, but she refused to open it, he was forever an 18 year old boy and that made her heart ache uncomfortably). Then her gaze fell on a writing desk. It was made, like all his furniture, of a heavy dark wood – ebony, perhaps – with carvings etched deeply into its surface.

She clambered off his bed, satisfied to see an imprint of her body left behind, and she ran a hand along his desk feeling the grooves left by the carpenter centuries ago. Dust coated her hand and she wiped it carelessly on her shirt. She sat.

What she wanted to do more than anything was to talk to Sirius. It had been eating away at her since she arrived at this place, question upon question. Silly little things like: where did he sit at the dinner table? Which of the coat hooks was his? Did he run up the stairs or climb them steadily? What did he do in the evenings, sit and read in the lounge, or play the grand looking piano that sat seemingly untouched in one corner? Thousands of these thoughts danced through her mind as she sat at the kitchen table listening to report after report. It was embarrassing to admit, but she made a conscious effort to take a new seat every meeting in the vain hope that she would feel something when she found his.

This chair she knew was his, and the certainty caused a sense of ease to wash over her. She pulled open the top draw - all feelings of comfort evaporated instantly when she read her name scrawled across a folded piece of parchment.

As she lifted it from the shadows she noticed that her hand had begun trembling, her heart was racing, and her stomach had twisted itself into knots. She didn't dare think - just unfolded the thick paper, and reminding herself to breath she began to read.

"_Tell me you love me, come back and haunt me, oh and I rush to the start" – _Coldplay

She couldn't be certain whether it was the front door slamming shut, the multiple groans of "Tonks", or the ear piercing screeches from Mrs Black's portrait that startled her from the trance she had fallen into. How long had she been sat there, an hour, a day, or a minute? She couldn't see clearly and it took her a few seconds to remember why her cheeks were so damp.

With an eerie sense of calm she stood, but stumbled like a newborn fawn bracing her hands on the desk to steady herself. Breathing deeply she pushed up, brushed the tears from her face, ran a brisk hand over her clothes, and made towards the open door.

Halfway across the room she remembered the letter still clutched tightly in her hand, she stared at it, her mind was spinning. It felt like the first time she had travelled by Port key, her stomach churned sickeningly.

Why hadn't he sent it? Damn him!

She would have gone with him; she couldn't deny that to herself any longer. Without a second thought she would have dropped everything to follow him. Maybe he knew that. Maybe that was why he had not sent it in the end.

The sound of some one running up the stairs jolted her out of her pensive thoughts - a ridiculous flicker of hope ignited in her hollow chest - but it was only Sirius, growling profanities at his mother whilst tugging the curtains shut.

Finally her mind returned to her. She folded up the letter carefully like the most ancient of artefacts, slipped it in her pocket, and stood waiting for Sirius' footsteps to fade back into the kitchen. When she was sure that no one would see she walked stiffly to the door, stepped out into the alcove. She looked back into the room, pleased to note the changes: the indent in his bed, the sunlight streaming in through his window, his chair scraped back from his desk, the draw still hanging open, her hand prints in its dusty surface. Some one had once lived in this room and she refused to leave it as if it was some museum – perfectly preserved, no sign of life.

With a last, longing look back she closed the door quietly and locked it. "Goodbye, Regulus," she whispered.

Downstairs she could hear the voices of her friends and colleagues muffled by the walls and ceilings between them. Step by step she made her way down to them, every second she was getting stronger, more determined. The letter in her pocket felt like a talisman, protecting her, reminding her that some one at some point had truly loved her – and she him. She was filled with a strength she hadn't known she was lacking, the courage to go forward, to fight on.

On the final step the wood creaked beneath her steady feet alerting the kitchen to her presence. The bright pink head of Tonks peered around the door, her eyes brightened when she caught sight of her.

"Hestia! Where in Merlin's name have you been?"


End file.
